


Rhodedendron Calendulaceum

by MrsNoggin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Experiments, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Poor John, Sickfic, and experiments that go wrong, bless em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock's experiments can have dreadful consequences, and sometimes they can lead to startling discoveries no one quite expected. For qnadia7, eventual Johnlock, rated T for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _A long long time ago (like the summer) qnadia7 asked me to write her something. And I did, but never quite finished it. But now I have (kind of)._
> 
>  
> 
> _Contains scenes regarding cardiac arrest (which really is is NO laughing matter) - so don't read if you're squicky or have issues about that. (p.s. I am probably not _quite_ up to scratch on my first aid knowledge, apologies about that in advance)_

“If C is the electrolytic cell and the resistance of the coil is 4.5 times that of the wire, the total resistance ratio would–“

“I’m not even going to pretend that I want to know what you’re doing.”

Sherlock was used to John’s interruptions. They rarely bothered him, no matter what he usually abruptly protested to the contrary. In fact, they quite often were timely pauses allowing him to reassess exactly what he was thinking and sometimes catch something he had missed in his haste.

“You don’t.” He stated, knowing it was entirely untrue. He could tell from the flick of John’s eyes between his scrawled notes and the circuit of wires on the kitchen table.

“Good. Or maybe... not so good.” John rolled his eyes. If Sherlock admitted hewouldn’t want to know, it was a bad sign.

Sherlock went back to ignoring him and let his mind tick back to his calculation, “Zero point one.”

John’s huff interrupted him again, “Okay, what _are_ you doing?”

“Electroconductivity of _Rhodedendron Calendulaceum._ ”

“Case?”

He nodded. _Murder. Husband. Suspected wife. Garden plants sizzled from the inside out. Interesting._

“Just watch the energy bills.” John took his mug of tea and wandered into the other room to leave him in peace.

Sherlock estimated he had four minutes of peace before John would return for more details. No matter what he claimed about experiments, they more often than not interested him too. No matter the subject, John was curious of the results and the processes it took to get them. Sherlock showed his acceptance of this by ‘carelessly’ leaving his notes lying around if he finished a study whilst John was out or asleep, and his discreet act of kindness was often rewarded by finding John at the kitchen table, poring over them while he drank a cup of tea.

This time he was wrong. It was less than three minutes ( _two minutes and thirty-four seconds to be precise_ ) before John was back, “Plants conduct, I know that, but efficiently enough to kill someone? Would the root system not siphon out the electricity?”

“That is the purpose of the experiment. Also to assess the voltage and current required to pass through the plant have sufficient power to cause death to a human, after factoring out any weakening from absorption of the plant itself. It is impossible to replicate it precisely, obviously; I have no suicidal volunteer and the post-mortem has yet to determine the exact health of the victim’s circulatory system, but I can garner a rough calculation.”

John nodded and shifted his behind from the edge of the table. His movement propelled a couple of sheets of equations over the corner of the surface and they fluttered slowly to the floor. Sherlock had no intention of picking them up; after all, he hadn’t knocked them off, even if he _was_ closer to reach them now. He was busy, connecting his circuit to the convertor he had hooked up between a power socket and his plant.

“Oh, so I’ll get that shall –“ John’s sarcasm was interrupted by a loud bang and Sherlock refocused on the room in time to see him land on the floor with a thump in the archway between the kitchen and living room.

Sherlock replayed the last three seconds in his head, watching John’s hand groping along the floor to reach the papers, seeing him overbalance, his raised hand instinctively reaching for something to save him. He must have brushed against the charged plant.

“You idiot,” he laughed, disconnecting the power supply. The laugh stopped abruptly when John didn’t curse. Or get up. Or move at all. “John?”

It took a quarter of a second for him to realise the exact implications of the current John had just received, and the position he had been in. One hand in contact with the plant, one hand on the floor. The chances of the current passing through his heart were... Far too high. As was the voltage.

He flew across the kitchen, knocking over a chair, but barely noticing. Half of him expected John to sit up, joking all along, laugh at his concern, but there was nothing. He pressed the flat of two fingers against John’s jugular. Then pushed upwards desperately, until he was practically digging into the cavity under his jaw. There was one desperate lonely beat, maybe two, but no real pulse. He checked his wrist, his chest, bent to listen for breathing.

Panic set in.

For some reason the first numbers his thumb pressed on the dial screen of his phone were not 999, but his brother’s speed dial code.

 “Brother dear?” Mycroft was smooth and sure, and Sherlock hated him. Why had he called him?

“Send me a damn ambulance. I’ve killed John.”

“Sherlock?!” That had shocked him. He didn’t think he had ever heard Mycroft’s voice break like that.

“Get me one _now_. I know you can. I know. He’s dead.”

“What’s happened? Are you at home?” He was calm again, but in the background Sherlock could hear him moving, opening a door, clicking buttons.

“I’ve electrocuted him. He’s completely out. I’ve disconnected the supply, but there’s not really any pulse , no... nothing.”

“Start CPR, there’s an ambulance on the way.” And the line went dead.

Sherlock dropped the phone. He could remember reading a study about the chances of resuscitation on a subject whose heart had completely stopped versus a basic cardiac arrest with staggered unsteady heartbeats. He couldn’t recall the results.  If Mycroft was worried it only cemented the idea that this really _was_ terrible. But he just couldn’t make himself work. None of him would move, and his brain had apparently stopped ticking over. For the first time he could ever remember.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Again, contains scenes regarding cardiac arrest (which really is NO laughing matter) - so don't read if you're squicky or have issues about that. I really am sorry about my dreadful medical knowledge - I AM trying..._
> 
> _This whole story is completely unbeta-ed, so let me know if you spot anything too horrific._

“John, this is going to sound really really silly, especially as you’re technically dead... But I seem to be unable to remember CPR.”

His voice was shaking, almost as much as his hands as he laid one on John’s chest and leant close to his face to listen for his breathing. He couldn’t hear anything over his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“Really, it’s basic first aid, it’s quite ridiculous,” Sherlock was waffling now, he knew it. But he just couldn’t seem to still his tongue, “Why are you unconscious, John? I spend my whole life telling you to shut up and now I need you here telling me what to do and you’re...”

There was nothing for it. He could feel nothing. No pulse, no breath, no life. Lifeless John – quite possibly the most terrifying thing he had even seen. He sat back on his heels, part of his brain counting the precious time he was wasting while another part of his brain searched for any medical knowledge that might help.

He located the relevant information, after a frustrating few seconds, and ran through it in his head. It seemed to make sense, he could rationalise most of it. There were updates, adjustments, variations in there, but he settled with what made most sense to him, the methods he could visualise being most effective. He took a deep steadying breath and pinched John’s nostrils closed, tipping his head back gently with his other hand.

“People are going to talk,” he said apologetically, wishing for an answering chuckle, and sealed his lips around John’s.

Sherlock blew, he blew until his lungs ached, waiting for John’s chest to inflate. There seemed to be some kind of delay, as if the necessary muscles were frozen in place. Eventually, finally, John’s shirt shifted as his lungs filled with recycled air. He repeated the action, trying not to dwell on the fact that he was breathing for John.

Breathing. For. John.

He straightened up and efficiently positioned his hands on John’s chest. He was going to hate this bit. He couldn’t help thinking that if this was all a mistake and John was fine this was the bit that was going to kill him. He pushed, digging the heel of his hand into the wall of skin and muscle and bone at a strength that made him wince, even though he knew it was just right – not too deep to cause unnecessary damage, but not too shallow to be ineffective. And then he did it again, and again, and again so many times. Somewhere in his brain he was counting, because when he reached thirty he automatically leant down again, listened for any signs of life, heard his own anguished cry fill the room at the lack and started all over again.

On the third cycle he heard a crack as a bone gave way beneath his efforts ( _fracture of the fifth costal cartilage, effectively detaching rib from sternum_ ), but only adjusted the arrangement of his hands and carried on. On the sixth cycle he began to tire and had to take care to keep his rhythm steady. But it wasn’t until the thirteenth cycle that there were flashing lights outside and footfalls on the stairs.

“Can you tell me what’s happened?” A hi-vised paramedic laid firm hands on his shoulders and steered him out of the way.

“Electrocution. Voltage... Current... God, I can’t even remember what it was,” Sherlock’s brain was frozen again. He waved generally in the direction of the kitchen, as if that might help them understand. The man ( _early thirties, Caucasian, slightly overweight, recently split from long-term partner, pastry crumbs on collar – a Gregg’s sausage roll?)_ looked at him blankly. “Oh, just save him, for crying out loud!”

“I’m Steven, and this is Khamrul,” he gestured to his partner, and then to John. His tones were kept clipped and efficient, but still soothing. “What’s his name?”

“John.” At least he could remember that bit. “John. Doctor John Watson. Captain John Watson. _John_. 38 years old. Allergic to sulphonamides and tetracyclines. Basal heart rate at rest - 62. Non-smoker, occasional drinker.”

Sherlock managed to stop the flow of unnecessary information. He could see the second paramedic working on John, speaking to him. He had a mask over John’s mouth, pumping air through a bag into his lungs. Steven was removing an AED ( _automated external defibrillator – restart heart, circulate blood_ ) from its bag. John’s shirt ( _blue and brown check, Burton 2009 range, 100% cotton, one of his favourites – he won’t be pleased_ )had been cut open and the adhesive pads were stuck onto his seemingly grey-tinged skin. There was an electronically toned voice barking instructions. Sherlock couldn’t translate them in his chaotic mind, but an arm pushed him back, away from John. He could predict what was coming next, but it did not stop it being a shock when John convulsed violently, his arms raising from the floor before landing back down with a crack as his knuckles struck the hardwood floorboards.

They checked his pulse and gave him more oxygen before restarting CPR. Sherlock could feel his senses starting to slip away. He couldn’t hear anything anymore, he could only focus on those bruised knuckles now scraping rhythmically across the polished wooden floor as the paramedics pounded on his chest. John had always joked Sherlock would kill him eventually, but neither of them had actually believed it. 

They stood clear again. Sherlock wanted to close his eyes so he wouldn’t see John electrocuted, yet again. But they wouldn’t listen to him. He watched the muscles in John’s abdomen ticking with aftershocks as the medics moved back in.

Unbearable. This was entirely his fault. And every piece of knowledge in his head was completely useless right now. There was nothing he could do. He was just a waste of space, a waste of everything at that moment.

 “I have a pulse!” Steven’s colleague announced.

There was a clear trembling inflation of John’s chest and Sherlock’s legs gave out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Two updates in one night, I'm afraid. I'm just too much of a wimp to leave John like that. I suck at suspense. But the fluff, Oh God, there is good fluff here._
> 
>  
> 
> _Once again, all unbeta-ed, drop me a line if it's too unreadable._

Hours later, Sherlock’s legs were still shaking as he slumped down into a supposedly soft, plastic-coated hospital chair. He had followed John through resus, assessment, and into intensive care. Though he would never admit it to anyone else, he had no qualms admitting to himself that he was tired. Bone tired. Exhausted. He felt like he was being slowly poisoned by the stale adrenaline flowing through him, his muscles transformed into gelatinous uselessness.

Mycroft had turned up in the assessment stages, patting his brother on the shoulder in an awkward comforting way. Thankfully he knew enough not to make inane reassurances, but just sat beside him quietly. He had evidently cleared the way for Sherlock to be down as John’s next of kin and for him to have access to all information. It made it easier, except that Sherlock was now fully and officially responsible for something (a very large and important something), which was a situation he was never quite comfortable with.  

John had yet to regain full consciousness. When Mycroft had finally left, Sherlock had watched him openly, wishing for the first time in years that he would stay. He must have dozed off at some point, because he jerked back into semi-consciousness as his head lolled forward, his chin colliding into his chest. He looked up, half-asleep, partly embarrassed and partly guilty in case anyone had seen his slip-up in guarding John. But the room was still empty. And no one had witnessed his moment of weakness. He let himself relax slightly.

“S’fine, go back to sleep.”

Sherlock slid a bit further into his chair at the familiar soothing tones, security instinctively re-established, and tipped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. In his dreams he was on a beach, feeling his bare feet sink into the damp sand, moulding footprints to mark his path. The regular beeps of John’s monitors faded into a distant calling gull and the smell of rubbery floors and rubbery food morphed into salt and wind. The waves were close beside him, the chill rising from the water and soaking into his face.

There was a part of his brain, the small section that never seemed to sleep, curling and twisting and calculating even in dreams, that was prodding him relentlessly. It was roiling unease in his belly, distorting his dream even as it began. And finally it got through, pushing aside the sand and the sea and the boats on the distant horizon and pulling back the muffled footsteps in the corridor and the bright lights breaching his eyelids. The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach reached boiling point and he shot straight up in his seat, his eyes snapping open as he realised...

“John!”

John’s head was tipped to the side in his semi-elevated position, his eyes half open as he watched. They were shadowed and bloodshot, but most definitely awake.

“Sherlock.” He mumbled pleasantly, almost smiling, “You just missed the doctor.”

What should he say? How did one address the person who they had almost killed? The one whose suddenly realised mortality had propelled them to the status of the most precious thing in the world.

“Sorry.” John interrupted his thoughts, looking down at the gauze dressings on his burnt hands.

“What on Earth are _you_ sorry for?!”

“Electrocuting myself. Making a mess. Being an idiot. Stressing you out. Spoiling your experiment. Not waking you up when the doctor was in here.”

Sherlock laughed then. What else was there to do? There was John, lying in a hospital bed having been unconscious most of the day and night, dead for some of it, all because of Sherlock, and _apologising_ for it in his weak croaky voice. It started off as a chuckle, a giggle, escalating into a laugh, bordered on hysterical for a little while and then Sherlock realised he had to stop, or he might do something really humiliating, like cry.

“It’s OK,” John whispered.

Sherlock knew then that he knew. And it made it even harder. He looked down at his own hands. Longs fingered, calloused and pockmarked with little scars. There was a smudge of ink on the inside of the top knuckle on his right middle-finger, marking the little bump where his pen rested when he wrote. He tried to distract himself with it, but all he could do was wonder if he had been holding that pen when John had died.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled. Why was John not mad? He should be shouting at him, calling him all the names under the sun, like he normally did. Sherlock would do anything right now to be called a dick or a cock or a fucking idiot in those terse tones.

John just looked at him weakly, but steadily and assured him again, “I know.”

“They don’t think there will be any long term damage to your heart or nervous system, though obviously there will be further tests now you are conscious and it is likely there will be some repercussions. I find it hard to believe you could have received such high voltage and gone through cardiac arrest and oxygen deprivation and slightly overzealous resuscitation efforts and have no –.”

“I’m fine,” John interrupted, “Well, not _fine_ , but OK. You can calm down, stop worrying.”

“I broke at least one rib...” Sherlock pointed out.

“You performed CPR?” He was surprised. More than surprised.

“Really? Do you imagine I would just leave you dead on the floor, waiting for some unknown medical professional to appear? Gamble your life on the faint chance that an NHS employee would be capable perform their–“

“Thank you,” John cut him off again. “We are still in an NHS facility, and there are _very capable_ staff probably within hearing distance.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to snark back at him, but stopped himself. He searched instead for something else to say, something less antagonistic. And somehow ended up with, “Well, that settles the experiment. It obviously works.”

His friend looked at him in absolute _disbelief_.

“Keep calm, John. Exciting yourself will only put pressure on –“ But he trailed off, because John wasn’t working up to shout at him; he was laughing. The sight of those eye-crinkles was more reassuring of John’s continued presence than any of the beeping monitors and blinking numbers around them. Though that in itself should be concerning to a man of science and logic, Sherlock let it go, and let himself laugh along with him.

John’s giggling finally faded with a sniff and a last snort. “Erm, any chance of a cup of tea?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Well, I said five chapters, but it's going to be six. I think. Sorry (not)._

There were two days of peace. John was moved to a ward (though a private room), Sherlock’s visiting hours were restricted to annoyingly respectable limits, the case was solved, John’s tubes and monitors and drips and goodness only knows what else were removed. It was all going swimmingly, guilt-ridden apologies had given way to casual mockery.

Until once when, completely as usual, John got up to go to the bathroom. It was nothing new, he had done it a few times by now, Sherlock had stopped offering to help, or suggesting the use of commodes and bedpans. Except this time, John had made it half way across the room and paused. He looked up to Sherlock, who had also looked up at the lack of movement.

“Sherlock...” his eyes were wide, his voice quiet.

He was on his feet in an instant, across the room, a bloom of adrenaline burning into his stomach as he grabbed hold of John’s forearms, avoiding the dressings extending up from his burnt hands.

“Nurse!” He yelled, watching the wide eyes slowly close as John swayed. “Doctor! Somebody!”

He caught him as he passed out, of course he did. He had plenty of warning and sufficient sense to see what was coming. It was the seconds after that he was lost in. The long moments of John’s limp weight against his chest, the slow slide as the final support of his dead legs gave. He flung an arm around John’s back, trying not to squeeze his bruised and broken ribcage and gripping his fingers into the cotton gown. The medical staff finally appeared, whisked John from his arms and onto the bed.

Everything ended up being plugged back into his unconscious body, but when he came round this time Sherlock was sitting alert beside his bed.

“God, did I die again?” John wheezed.

“Not another heart attack, no. In fact they aren’t exactly sure what it was, just a drop in blood pressure.”

“Oh. I’ll be on twenty-four ECG then?” John checked, pouting delightfully at Sherlock’s nod, “Oh, I thought I’d be getting out of here soon.”

Sherlock hummed gently in woeful agreement. Though if he examined it a little more closely, his woe was less that John would have to stay in a bit longer and more that he was now pretty certain he had done him some serious permanent damage. The ribs would take a while to heal, the weakness a while to fade, the heart – who knew? Who even knew what Sherlock had done to it? No matter what John said to the contrary now, if they discovered permanent damage it was so very much down to the detective and his ridiculous experiments and the blame could be placed nowhere else.

 _Oh God, John would leave him._ This whole affair would drive an irremovable wedge between them, their friendship would fade. No, not fade; it would sour around the edges, curling and darkening, becoming sharp and acidic. The taint would spread, slowly, unevenly, weaving in around the cords and skins that held the pulp of them together. And they would either break apart spectacularly in a rancid explosion or just slowly ferment and rot and eventually dry out.  

John’s voice permeated Sherlock’s painful ponderings, “Will you just chill out?

“I am perfectly _chilled out_.” He was. Well, to all intents and purposes he appeared so. He was sat straight and still, arms relaxed on the rests of his uncomfortable rubber-coated posture-correcting chair. He had been staring, but only at the foot of the bed.

John simply raised an eyebrow, “Whatever.”

“I am!” He insisted, which was stupid, because now he really didn’t sound chilled out. What was the matter with him at the moment?

“I don’t know what was going on in that head of yours, whose palace quarters you were exploring, but the look of... devastation and... panic was not comforting in the least. So please, close that imaginary door and leave it alone.”

“I don’t want you to go.” Where the hell had that come from? Had he lost complete control of his faculties? “I mean...” Shit.

“Go? Die? You don’t want me to die?” John rolled his eyes and sat himself up a little against his pillows. “Well, thanks, that’s very reassuring. Neither do I really.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. He wasn’t quite that ridiculous, yet. “Don’t be dense. Of course I don’t want you to die, surely my efforts to keep you alive over the course of our partnership have been testament enough to that. Why would I bother to verbalise something so obvious?”

“So go where? I’m not going anywhere.” John grumbled. Then Sherlock saw the moment of comprehension flow down over his face and his stomach sank. John sat up in his bed, sending the monitor lights flashing and the beepers beeping. “You think I’m going?!”

Well, this conversation was a mistake. It had been in the beginning, and it was only getting worse. “John, please calm down.”

John was not listening, “Where exactly would I go? Or is this some kind of manipulation, planting the idea in my head so I dwell on it and... Oh Jesus, you don’t want me getting in the way. I’ll be too slow and... crippled now, more so than ever befo –“

“John! Will you just –“

“You can’t fix this one, can you? It’s not in my head this time.”

Something somewhere in the region of Sherlock’s own heart gave a squeeze at that. Now John was the one looking devastated. “John...”

John was drawing in shorter breaths, puffing them out agitatedly, the figures on his monitors rising disturbingly. He was going to turn sour now, his defences were up, his skin trying to thicken. Whatever came out of his mouth next would be sharp and cutting. It was beginning.

“Will you just listen!” Sherlock slammed his fist down on the wooden arm of his chair. It made a disappointingly dull sound, and hurt more than he had expected. He glanced down at it accusingly, distracted momentarily – the upholstery and rubbery-vinyl wipe-clean cover must have an insulating effect on the resounding vibrations.

There were squeaking footsteps and a nurse dashed into room _(early thirties, toddler at home, bi-sexual tendencies, missed lunch-break_ ) and took in the scene. “I think it would be best if you were to leave,” she snapped at Sherlock.

“Excuse me?!”

She placed a placating palm on John’s shoulder. He flinched from the touch, Sherlock observed, feeling oddly pleased by it. Old scar-tissue, instinctive reaction.

“He needs rest, not... this,” she gave a mystified wave at the room, “Whatever this is. You are winding him up. Which is not only affecting readings and results, but pushing him back in his recovery. Out, please.”

Sherlock stood, trying to be furious, but not quite managing. Because she was right; all he ever did was wind John up. And it was far less enjoyable this time than it normally was. John was looking resolutely away and letting the nurse lay him back onto the raised bed. Sherlock paused at the door, “I’ll be back later.”

Which was a lie. He never actually left the building. He waited a few hours, until after the next shift change, sneaked back onto the ward with a pilfered security card, and slipped straight into John’s room.

He was asleep. It was quite a relief really. Sherlock listened to the reassuring bleeps of his various machines. He knew precisely what each one was and what they were telling him, but he filed them into a half-monitored section of his brain. The steady whirring and regular rhythm was enough to tell him what he needed, otherwise he’d find himself obsessing over the numbers and lines and he had better things to obsess over at that moment.

The flicking of John’s eyelids as he slipped in and out of sleep cycles and dreams. The rise and fall of his chest under the thin cotton of his hospital gown _(he really should bring him in some pyjamas, but that would involve leaving the building – Mycroft perhaps? Or Mrs Hudson?)._ John was uneasy sleeping on his back; he was a side-sleeper, a foetal-position-curler, but he had no choice in this bed, with all his leads and drips. His sleep was lighter in this enforced position, his fingers twitching against the blanket.

Sherlock pulled his chair closer to side of the bed, lifting all four legs an even distance from the floor to avoid noise, and descended slowly into it. There was a puff of air from the stitching running down the sides of the cushion, but no squeak. He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the top edge of the dropped side-guard of the bed and listened to John’s breathing. Was there any way, he wondered, to detect oxygen saturation and lung performance simply by watching and listening? Different flushes of skin colour, rate of inhale versus length of exhale, regularity of nostril dilation, frequency of those soft little snuffly snores that he let out.

No, Sherlock came to the conclusion fairly quickly, it was fairly impossible without more subjects and reliable data to compare to. But it was still nice to pretend that was what he was doing. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Is this it? Are they finally getting the idea? Stoooopid boys._
> 
> _Unbeta-ed and written in a highly distracting atmosphere, so sorry for any glaring mistakes. Drop me a line if any leap out at you._

The discussion wasn’t mentioned again. Sherlock was there when John woke up, stayed all day, left for a while until John went to sleep and then snuck in again to stay all night. He slept, of course, he was no fool. He knew he was no use if he didn’t shut his brain down at least partially for at least two hours a night. But it was always in the chair and always in the dead of night.

“Do you ever go home?”

Sherlock startled awake, shooting into an upright position and sweeping his gaze around the room instinctively. But it was just him and John, in the semi –dark.

“Go back to sleep, John.” Sherlock raised a foot onto his seat, bending his knee and resting his chin on it. “You need proper rest to recover.”

“I’m being discharged tomorrow.” He sounded sleep-roughened and drowsy.

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” He yawned, and made an abortive move to turn over. He couldn’t. A tired sigh puffed out into the room. “So? Do you?”

He could lie. Or he could admit that he hadn’t been home since they first arrived at the hospital a week ago. Mycroft had forced clean and pressed clothes upon him, and he had snuck the odd shower in the staff bathrooms with stolen shampoo and towels. But no, he hadn’t been home. He did neither, he just stayed silent. Which, he supposed, was answer enough.

“You idiot,” John’s voice smiled and he went back to sleep.

* * *

 

Sherlock paced the corridor the next morning, sipping his too-hot coffee and scaring strangers with his glares. The doctor was in talking to John, the nurse filling out papers and giving John leaflets. It was ridiculous. It was unbearable. Why did they need privacy for this? They could be back at the flat by now.

“Just sit down a minute,” Mrs Hudson tried to catch at the tails of his coat, but let go immediately, lest she be swept from her chair.

“Why is this taking so long? It’s intolerable. John doesn’t need all this information; he’s a doctor. He _gives out_ this information.”

“You’ll be home soon,” she cut straight through to the heart of the matter, “Half an hour. He’ll be sitting in his chair, drinking a cup of tea and laughing at you spouting nonsense. I cleared up the mess in the kitchen, by the way.”

“Yes, yes,” he waved her away. Until that statement penetrated, “You did what?!”

“Tidied away the mess in the kitchen. I know, I know, experiments, results ruined, what was I thinking, blah blah,” she imitated his own careless hand gesture, “But I couldn’t bear the thought of John having to tidy away the thing that did this, and lord knows, you won’t do it. And the state of the place, really Sherlock, it took me an hour to hoover that living room.”

“You did what?” He repeated, shocked into stillness.

“Do you listen to a word I say? Anybody would think we communicated via different frequencies. I suppose we probably do, in a way...”

“You... The... You touched a plant connected to a circuit that you knew had electrocuted John? You tided away something that practically _killed_ a man?”

“Well, it was all over the place. And he’ll need proper cooked food to build him back up again. You can’t make that with the kitchen in that state.”

Sherlock laughed. He just laughed, because really, what else could he do? The woman was more bonkers than he was.

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson had been right. Half an hour later John was sat in his armchair, but pale and clearly not quite up to strength. He had a cup of tea on the table beside him and was chuckling at Sherlock ranting about his brother and his interfering ways and the hamper of fresh food he had had somebody leave on the kitchen table. Nosy prat.

John looked exhausted and when Sherlock suggested he go to bed after lunch, he agreed disturbingly easily. There was no chair in John’s bedroom, there was nowhere for Sherlock to sit with him and even less reason for him to do so. He should have helped him up there and left, gone downstairs and done his own thing, fiddled around with something, looked up cold cases, texted Mycroft something insulting. But instead he followed John slowly up the stairs, with one gentle hand supportively resting in his lower back and pulled the duvet over him, patting him on the hip and stood there uselessly.

“Do you need anything else?” Sherlock offered, “Drink, book, painkillers, packet of hobnobs?”

“Only for you to stop worrying and feeling guilty. It was entertaining at first,” he teased, “But it’s getting a bit concerning now. Nothing is your fault. Nothing needs worrying about.”

Sherlock just pursed his lips into a fair approximation of a smile and left the room.

John could sleep on his side again now, and he took full advantage of it, scrunching up his covers and flinging a leg over them, curling his face into the plump quilts and hugging them to him. It was adorable. And Sherlock, nipping up to check on him, take his pulse, make sure he was still alive, was so captured by it that he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave again. Watching someone sleep in hospital was _almost_ acceptable, but in their own room at home, even Sherlock knew, crossed the boundaries into creepy.

But creepy he was, he realised, because he had been stood there for a good ten minutes when John stirred and turned over to him.

“You take looming to a whole new level,” he yawned and shifted over closer to the wall, “Just get in.”

Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion, but he was already lowering himself to the warm John-scented mattress. John’s bandaged arm slithered across his waist and he nuzzled into a bony shoulder. What had Sherlock missed? Because this wasn’t right. Well, it was _right,_ disturbingly so, but unexpected.

“Erm, John...?”

“Do you mind, I’m trying to sleep here,” he quipped. Then his head raised and he looked up at his flatmate. “ _Do_ you mind?”

Sherlock thought about it, what exactly he would be minding, what the hidden tones of the question were, and then wondered why he was thinking about it when the answers would all be the same. “Not particularly, no.”

“This isn’t exactly the way I envisaged this happening,” John mumbled sleepily, nestling back into the pillows. He tucked his warm bare feet against the chill of Sherlock’s socked pair. “I was rather more picturing dinner and candles, or maybe the adrenaline fuelled aftermath of a chase where I could grab you and shove you against a wall and kiss and grope the hell out of you.”

Sherlock felt his eyes open comically wide and he stared at the ceiling. That was... unexpected. And rather a surprisingly delightful image.

“But then again, electrocution and near-death experiences seem a lot more _us_ , don’t they.”

Sherlock was still staring.

“And this way nobody has to say anything, we can just know without words. Because you really suck at saying some things, even to yourself.”

The ceiling really was quite boring.

“So I’m going to stop talking now, if that’s ok.”

Sherlock nodded, “Yes.”

John pressed a firm kiss into Sherlock’s shirted shoulder and flung the duvet over them.

“Fine,” Sherlock grinned, “It’s all fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the end is here! Sorry it's been a while. I won't go into details, but hopefully issues are sorted and I'm back now. 
> 
> Biggest thanks to [GoodOldJames](http://goodoldjames.tumblr.com) for reading over this and prodding me to post it. It probably would have been another month without his help.

John was a rubbish patient. It was nothing to do with being a doctor and all to do with him being John. He refused to take painkillers unless his ribs and hands were stopping him from sleeping. He wouldn’t let Sherlock make him tea, he had to do it himself. And he kept bloody _tidying up_. As if sitting there and looking at the mess somehow made it messier.

“John you have been out of hospital for less than twenty-four hours, vacuuming is not a suitable activity.”

“I’m sitting in my armchair reading the paper!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. They both knew what he’d actually been thinking about, toeing the rug and staring at the dust accumulating in the groove around the bottom of the hearth. Mrs Hudson must have missed that bit.

John tipped his head to one side, peeking around the page, “You could do it...”

Sherlock did not even bother replying. He just dropped the eyebrow and put his goggles back on.

He insisted on John having another afternoon nap after lunch, seeing as the last one was easily taken and greatly appreciated, and was glad he did when he saw how much effort it took John to get up the stairs. He put a supporting hand in the small of his back, under the guise of impatience, but neither of them were fooled.

“Are you staying?” John pulled back his duvet and flumped down gingerly on the mattress.

“If you want,” Sherlock shrugged. But as usual John was better at listening to the words that Sherlock was at saying them, so he just smiled at the apparent nonchalance and budged carefully over to make room. Sherlock stayed on top of the covers this time, steepling his hands upon his chest and slipping his mind elsewhere.

When he surfaced again John was asleep half on top of the quilt, curled to Sherlock’s side with their feet tangled together and his soft breath puffing into his shirt. Sherlock didn’t go anywhere.

* * *

 

It took two weeks of recuperation and mothering (smothering) from Mrs Hudson (and Sherlock, though he would never admit it) before John was fit enough to go out on a case. And then they only started off gently – no chases, no surprises, boring boring boring. But safe.

On the outside not much had changed between them that evening. Perhaps a gentle hand on the curve of a shoulder, or a significant glance at a rather marvellous deduction, a discreet handing over of ready-warmed leather gloves or fine woollen scarf on a cold foggy evening, but nothing too noticeable, unless you were looking for it.

But as soon as the front door of 221b closed behind them that evening, blocking the world outside, everything shifted back again, to this confusing something-nothingness. John’s hand accidentally grazed the curve of a buttock as he followed it up the stairs, trying to wrestle his coat off, but nothing was said and no apologies made. Instead Sherlock’s lips brushed the curve of an ear as he passed John filling the kettle from the kitchen tap. It was a natural move, and though he had been surprised by it happening by itself, apparently John had not. He just smiled and carried on as he was.

Perhaps tonight, Sherlock mused. They had been in a kind of limbo for the past weeks; knowing that something was happening and changing, but not quite sure what. Of course, they couldn’t do this the normal way – _normal_ was a social construct of a majority people of similar minds finding the method that suited them best. Neither John nor Sherlock were particularly normal, and so it followed that they would do things their own way. And it fitted that, seeing as neither of them seemed to know exactly where they were headed, they would just let things shift and adjust at their own rate. Whatever that rate might be...

“Do you suppose it might be acceptable for me to kiss you tonight?” Sherlock enquired as he accepted the proffered cup of tea and flipped open his laptop one-handed.

John tipped his head to the side thoughtfully and sat down. Separate armchairs stood forgotten and cold as long feet were tucked under a chunky thigh on the sofa. “That might be nice.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. Nice indeed.

“When exactly are you intending to do this?”

“When you are placed at an angle more conducive to physical contact,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, “And without a scalding-hot beverage in your hand.”

“You don’t need to think about it too much,” John said, apparently knowing that was exactly what his flatmate was doing. He sipped at said beverage. It was indeed scalding-hot. He stopped. “Maybe it’s just something you should let happen. I don’t imagine planning it is a good idea.”

“Well, to be fair, I’ve been planning it for a while,” Sherlock admitted.

“Oh.”

“I had to be sure it was welcome, and appealing to both parties. Plus, of course, certain that you were recovered enough that it would not place unacceptable strain on your circulatory system.”

John laughed, “Wow, I find myself a bit intimidated by this confidence in your prowess.”

“Shut-up.”

* * *

 

They were in the upstairs bedroom when Sherlock kissed John. In hindsight, it was probably not the ideal moment, but Sherlock’s calculations had been affected by John shucking off his jeans and stepping into his baggy cotton pyjamas. The bare chest had been the last straw and accurate examinations of the situation had been rendered entirely impossible. Sherlock paused in the unbuttoning of his shirt and closed the space between them. Initially it was a chaste contact – a connection of lips, a brief pause and then a disconnection. John hadn’t even closed his eyes.

“Nice.” John nodded.

Sherlock agreed. Nice, but not enough, not nearly. So he slipped off his shirt and continued. The yellowed bruising on John’s chest drew in his hands, and the curve of John’s belly drew in his hip and then John tipped his head and his lips did a lot of drawing of their own.

John kissed like a master. If anyone was concerned about what the act was doing to their pulse it should be Sherlock – it was thundering. It wasn’t like he’d never been kissed before, but he’d never been kissed like _that_ before.

When John pulled away, Sherlock would have been worried, concerned, fretting, except that those steady capable ( _only slightly sore_ ) hands remained on his body – one on his bare waist and one curled up around the back of his neck. They squeezed lightly in reassurance and affection.

“Still nice?” Sherlock asked, his eyes searching John’s face, skating over the slightly dreamy expression. _Blown pupils, swollen lips, increased blood flow pinking his cheeks._ Still nice, he confirmed to himself.

“Yeah, yeah. I just... I need to sit down.”

Oh, shit. _Elevated heartrate, shallow breaths, shaking limbs._ Sherlock practically shoved him backwards onto the edge of the bed and sank to the floor with a crack of kneecaps on the floorboards. “Are you okay? Alright? Are you alright?”

Would this ever end? John needed to be better, now. There was guilt, there was panic, there was an uncomfortable wrenching of his digestive organs that made no sense whatsoever.

“I’m fine,” John laughed, “The strain on my circulatory system is in no way unacceptable.”

Sherlock smiled faintly, trust John to choose this situation to remember his exact words and recall them to tease. When lives and cases were at stake he was frustratingly slow, but now, when it was only ego... Though it wasn’t, was it? There was a lot more at stake here. John leaned forward and pressed their lips firmly together, though it was more reassurance than anything else at this point.

Sherlock sat back on his heels. “Do you want me to leave you? I have that kidney downstairs that could –“

“Stay.”

“Yes.” He said. _Forever_ , he meant.


End file.
